Rand glanced around. “How long do you think we have before the virals come back?” he asked quietly. “It’s got to be close by now.”
Michael shrugged.
“It’s not that I’m not grateful. We all are. But people want to be ready.”
“If they do their damn jobs, we’ll be long gone before it happens.” Michael hitched his tool bag onto his shoulder. “And for fucksake, will somebody please go find Patch. I don’t want to wait around all morning.”
It was evening when Michael finally emerged from the bowels of the ship. His knees were killing him; he’d done something to his neck, too. He’d never found the leak, either.
But he would; he always did. He would find it, and every other leak and rusty rivet and frayed wire in the Bergensfjord’s miles of cables and wires and pipes, and soon, in a matter of months, they would charge the batteries and test-fire the engines, and if all went as it should, they’d be ready. Michael liked to imagine that day. The pumps engaging, water pouring into the dock, the retaining wall opening, and the Bergensfjord, all twenty thousand tons of her, sliding gracefully from her braces into the sea.
For two decades, Michael had thought of little else. The trade had been Greer’s idea—a stroke of genius, really. They needed money, a lot of it. What did they have to sell? A month after he’d shown Lucius the newspaper from the Bergensfjord, Michael had found himself in the back room of the gambling hall known as Cousin’s Place, sitting across a table from Dunk Withers. Michael knew him to be a man of extraordinary temper, lacking all conscience, driven by only the most utilitarian concerns; Michael’s life meant nothing to him, because no one’s did. But Michael’s reputation had preceded him, and he’d done his homework. The gates were about to open; people would be flooding into the townships. The opportunities were many, Michael pointed out, but did the trade possess the capacity to meet a rapidly growing demand? What would Dunk say if Michael told him that he could triple—no, quadruple—his output? That he could also guarantee an uninterrupted flow of ammunition? And furthermore, what if Michael knew about a place where the trade could operate in complete safety, beyond the reach of the military or the domestic authority but with quick access to Kerrville and the townships? That, in sum, he could make Dunk Withers richer than he could imagine?
Thus was the isthmus born.
A great deal of time was wasted at the start. Before Michael could so much as tighten a single bolt on the Bergensfjord, he had to win the man’s confidence. For three years he had overseen the construction of the massive stills that would make Dunk Withers a legend. Michael was not unaware of the costs. How many fistfights would leave a man bloodied and toothless, how many bodies would be dumped into alleyways, how many wives and children would be beaten or even killed all because of the mental poison he provided? He tried not to think about it. The Bergensfjord was all the mattered; it was a price she demanded, paid in blood.
Along the way, he laid the groundwork for his true enterprise. He began with the refinery. Cautious inquiries: Who seemed bored? Dissatisfied? Restless? Rand Horgan was the first; he and Michael had worked the cookers together for years. Others followed, recruited from every corner. Greer would leave for a few days, then return with a man in a jeep with nothing but a duffel bag and his promise to stay on the isthmus for five years in exchange for wages so outrageous they would set him up for life. The numbers accumulated; soon they had fifty-four stout souls with nothing to lose. Michael noticed a pattern. The money was an inducement, but what these men really sought was something intangible. A great many people drifted through their lives without a feeling of purpose. Each day felt indistinguishable from the last, devoid of meaning. When he unveiled the Bergensfjord to each new recruit, Michael could see a change in the man’s eyes. Here was something beyond the scope of ordinary days, something from before the time of mankind’s diminishment. It was the past Michael was giving these men and, with it, the future. We’re actually going to fix it? they always asked. Not “it,” Michael corrected. “Her.” And no, we’re not going to fix her. We’re going to wake her up.
It didn’t always take. Michael’s rule was this: At the three-year mark, once Michael was certain of a man’s loyalty, he took him to an isolated hut, sat him in a chair, and gave him the bad news. Most took it well: a moment of disbelief, a brief period of bargaining with the cosmos, requests for evidence Michael declined to provide, resistance eventually yielding to acceptance and, finally, a melancholy gratitude. They would be among the living, after all. As for those who didn’t last three years, or failed the test of the hut, well, that was unfortunate. Greer was the one to take care of this; Michael kept his distance. They were surrounded by water, into which a man could quietly vanish. Afterward, his name was never mentioned.
It took two years to repair the dock, another two to pump and refloat the hull, a fifth to back her in. The day they set her hull in the braces, sealed the doors, and drained the water from the dock was the most anxious of Michael’s life. The braces would hold, or not; the hull would crack, or it wouldn’t. A thousand things could go wrong, and there would be no second chances. As a layer of daylight appeared between the receding water and the bottom of the hull, his men erupted in cheers, but Michael’s emotions were different. He felt not elation but a sense of fate. Alone, he took the stairs to the bottom of the dock. The cheers had quieted; everyone was watching him. With water pooling around his ankles, he stepped toward her cautiously, as if approaching some great, holy relic. Clear of the water, she had become something new. The sheer size of her, her indomitable bulk—it staggered the mind. The curvature of her hull below the waterline possessed an almost feminine softness; from her bow jutted a bulbous shape, like a nose or the front of a bullet. He moved under her; all her weight was above him now, a mountain suspended over his head. He reached up and placed a hand against her hull. She was cold; a humming sensation met the tips of his fingers. It was as if she were breathing, a living thing. A deep certainty flowed into his veins: here was his mission. All other possibilities for his life dropped away; until the day he died, he would have no purpose but this.
Except to sail the Nautilus, Michael had not left the isthmus since. A show of solidarity, politically wise, but in his heart he knew the real reason. He belonged nowhere else.
He walked to the bow to look for Greer. A damp March wind was blowing. The isthmus, part of an old shipyard complex, jutted into the channel a quarter mile south of the Channel Bridge. A hundred yards offshore. the Nautilus lay at anchor. Her hull was still tight, her canvas crisp. The sight made him feel disloyal; he had not sailed her in months. She was the forerunner; if the Bergensfjord was his wife, then the Nautilus was the girl who had taught him to love.
He heard the launch before he saw it, churning under the Channel Bridge in the silvery light. Michael descended to the service dock as Greer guided the boat in. He tossed Michael a line.
“How did it go?”
Greer tied off the stern, passed Michael his rifle, and climbed onto the pier. Just past seventy, he had aged the way bulls did: one minute they’d be huffing and snorting, looking to gore you; the next you’d find them lying in a field, covered in flies.
“Well,” Michael offered, “she didn’t kill you—that’s a plus.”
Greer didn’t answer. Michael sensed that the man was troubled; the visit had not gone well.
“Lucius, did she say something?”
“Say? You know how this works.”
“Actually, I’ve never really known.”
He shrugged. “It’s a feeling I have. She has. Probably it’s nothing.”
Michael decided not to press. “There was something else I wanted to bring up with you. I had a little run-in with Dunk today.”
Greer was coiling rope. “You know how he gets. This time tomorrow he’ll have forgotten all about it.”
“I don’t think he’s going to let this one go. It was bad.”
Greer looked up.
“It was my
fault. I was egging him on.”
“What happened?”
“He came down to the engine room. The usual bullshit about the stills. Rand and a couple of guys practically had to pull him off me.”
Greer’s brow furrowed. “There’s been too much of this.”
“I know. He’s getting to be a problem.” Michael paused, then said, “It may be time.”
Greer was silent, taking this in.
“We’ve talked about it.”
Greer thought for a moment, then nodded. “Under the circumstances, you may be right.”
They went over the names: who they could count on, who they couldn’t, who was somewhere in between and would have to be carefully handled.
“You should lie low for now,” Greer said. “Rand and I will make the arrangements.”
“If you think that’s best.”
The spotlights had come on, drenching the dock with light. Michael would be working most of the night.
“Just get that ship ready,” said Greer.
Sara glanced up from her desk; Jenny was standing in the doorway.
“Sara, you need to see something.”
Sara followed her downstairs to the wards. Jenny pulled back the curtain to show her. “The DS found him in an alley.”
It took Sara a moment to recognize her own son-in-law. His face had been beaten to a pulp. Both of his arms were in casts. They moved back outside.
Jenny said, “I only just saw the chart and realized who it was.”
“Where’s Kate?”
“She’s on the evening shift.”
It was nearly four o’clock. Kate would be walking in the door any second.
“Head her off.”
“What do you want me to say?”
Sara took a moment to think. “Send her to the orphanage. Aren’t they due for a visit?”
“I don’t know.”
“Figure it out. Go.”
Sara entered the ward. As she approached, Bill looked up with the eyes of a man who knew his day was about to get worse.
“Okay, what happened?” she asked.
He turned his face away.
“I’m disappointed in you, Bill.”
He spoke through split lips: “I kinda figured.”
“How much do you owe them?”
He told her. Sara dropped into a chair by the bed. “How could you be so goddamned stupid?”
“It wasn’t like I planned this.”
“You know they’ll kill you. Probably I should just let them.”
He surprised her by starting to cry.
“Cripes, don’t do that,” she said.
“I can’t help it.” Snot was running from his thickened nose. “I love Kate, I love the girls. I’m really, really sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t help. How much time have they given you to come up with the money?”
“I can earn it all back. Just stake me for one night. I won’t need much, just enough to get started.”
“Does Kate fall for stuff like this?”
“She doesn’t have to know.”
“It was a rhetorical question, Bill. How much time?”
“The usual. Three days.”
“What’s usual about it? On second thought, don’t tell me.” She got to her feet.
“You can’t tell Hollis. He’ll kill me.”
“He might.”
“I’m sorry, Sara. I screwed up, I know that.”
Jenny appeared, a little breathless. “Okay, looks like she bought it.”
Sara glanced at her watch. “That gives you about an hour, Bill, before your wife shows up. I suggest you come clean and beg for mercy.”
The man looked terrified. “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing you deserve.”
27
Caleb was building a chicken coop when he saw a figure walking up the dusty road. It was late in the afternoon; Pim and Theo were resting in the house.
“Saw your smoke.” The man who stood before him had a pleasant, weathered face and a thick, wooly beard. He was wearing a wide straw hat and suspenders. “Since we’re going to be neighbors, thought I’d come by to say hello. Phil Tatum’s the name.”
“Caleb Jaxon.” They shook.
“We’re just on the other side of that ridge. Been there a bit, before most folks. There’s me and my wife, Dorien. We got a grown boy just started his own place up toward Bandera. Did you say Jaxon?”
“That’s right. He’s my father.”
“I’ll be damned. What are you doing way out here?”
“Same as everyone, I guess. Making do.” Caleb removed his gloves. “Come in and meet my family.”
Pim was sitting in a chair by the cold hearth with Theo on her lap, showing him a picture book.
“Pim,” Caleb said, signing along, “this is our neighbor, Mr. Tatum.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Jaxon?” He was holding his hat against his chest. “Please, don’t get up on my account.”
I’m very pleased to meet you.
Caleb realized his error. “I should have explained. My wife is deaf. She says she’s pleased to meet you.”
The man nodded evenly. “Got a cousin like that, passed a while back. She learned to read lips a little, but the poor thing just lived in her own world.” He raised his voice, the way a lot of people did. “That’s a fine-looking boy you have, Mrs. Jaxon.”
What’s he saying?
You’re beautiful and he wants to go to bed with you. He turned to their guest, who was still fingering the brim of his hat. “She says thank you, Mr. Tatum.”
Don’t be rude. Ask him if he wants something to drink.
Caleb repeated the question.
“Have to be home before supper, but I reckon I could sit for a bit, thank you.”
Pim filled a pitcher with water, added slices of lemon, and placed it on the table, where the two men sat. They talked about little things: the weather, other homesteads in the area, where Caleb should get his livestock and at what price. Pim had gone off with Theo; she liked to take him down to the river, where the two of them would just sit quietly. It became clear to Caleb that the man and his wife were a little lonely. Their son had gone off with a woman he’d met at a dance in Hunt, barely saying goodbye.
“Couldn’t help notice your wife is expecting,” Tatum said. They had finished the water; now they were just talking.
“Yes, she’s due in September.”
“There’s a doc in Mystic when the time comes.” He gave Caleb the information.
“That’s very kind. Thank you.” Caleb sensed the presence of a sad history in the man’s offer. The Tatums had had another child, perhaps more than one, who had failed to survive. This was all far in the past, but not really.
“Much obliged to you both,” Tatum said at the door. “It’s nice to have some young people around.”
That night, Caleb replayed the conversation for Pim. She was bathing Theo in the sink. He had fussed at the start but now seemed to be enjoying himself, batting the water around with his fists.
I should call on his wife, Pim signed.
Do you want me to go with you? He meant to translate for her.
She looked at him like he had lost his mind. Don’t be ridiculous.
This conversation stayed with him for several days. Somehow, in all his planning, Caleb had failed to consider that they would need other people in their lives. Some of this was the fact that with Pim he shared a private richness that made other relationships seem trivial. Also, he was not innately social; he preferred his own thoughts to most human interaction.
It was true, as well, that Pim’s world was more limited than most people’s. Beyond her family, it was confined to a small group of those who, if they could not sign, were able to intuit her meanings. She was often alone, which did not seem to trouble her, and she filled much of this time by writing. Caleb had peeked at her journals a few times over the years, unable to resist this small crime; like her letters, her entries were
wonderfully written. While they sometimes expressed doubts or concern over various matters, generally they communicated an optimistic view of life. They also contained a number of sketches, though he had never seen her draw. Most depicted familiar scenes. There were a great many drawings of birds and animals, as well as the faces of people she knew, although none of him. He wondered why she had never let him see them, why she had drawn them in secret. The best ones were the seascapes—remarkable, because Pim had never seen the ocean.
Still, she would want friends. Two days after Phil had stopped by, Pim asked Caleb if he would mind looking after Theo for a few hours; she wanted to visit the Tatums and planned to bring a johnnycake. Caleb spent the afternoon working in the garden while Theo napped in a basket. He began to worry as the day drew to a close, but just before dark Pim returned in high spirits. When Caleb asked her how they had been able to carry on a conversation for close to five hours, Pim smiled. It doesn’t matter with women, she signed. We always understand each other just fine.
The next morning, Caleb took the buckboard into town for supplies and to reshoe one of the horses, the big black gelding they called Handsome. Pim had also written a letter to Kate and asked him to post it. Besides these errands, he wanted to establish contact with more people from the area. He could ask the men he met about their wives, with the hope of expanding Pim’s circle, so that she would not feel lonely.
The town was not encouraging. Just a few weeks had passed since he and Pim had passed through on their way to the farmstead; at the time there had been people about, but now the place seemed lifeless. The town office was closed, as was the farrier. But he had better luck at the mercantile. The owner was a widower named George Pettibrew. Like many men on the frontier, he had a taciturn manner, slow to warm up, and Caleb had never managed to learn much about him. George followed him as he moved through the cluttered space, placing his order—a sack of flour, beet sugar, a length of heavy chain, sewing thread, thirty yards of chicken wire, a sack of nails, lard, cornmeal, salt, oil for the lanterns, and fifty pounds of feed.
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