It’s hot, it’s so hot, even in the middle of the night, the black summer night tinted by the crazy oranges and yellows of the fires.
I yell their names again—Rocky! Martha!—but there must be one more code word, a shibboleth they memorized at the behest of the smooth-talking salesmen from the World Beyond, something they’re expecting to hear when the nice men from the rescue convoy roll up in their black cars and jumpsuits. I turn around. McConnell is still sitting there. I jab one finger in the air and I whirl it around, a little piece of police sign language, and in case she can’t see me or doesn’t understand, I yell it: “Lights, McConnell,” I holler. “Turn on the lights.”
McConnell turns on the lights. They spin on the top of the car, the classic cop-show colors, blue reflecting on black. It’s a cruel trick, but I need Martha out here. I need her to come out and you can’t tell a trooper car from a CPD Impala, not from inside a dark restaurant. And it works. She sees what she wants to see, just like she did in her dream. The door slams open and she races out, flies toward the car.
“Martha.”
But she doesn’t wait; she races past me to the police car, stares into the windows. I see McConnell up front and Kelli in the backseat, jerking backward, away from the desperate phantom at the window. He’s not in there and she spins around as Rocky Milano comes lumbering out to retrieve her. He’s out of his apron, in a sweat suit, his bald forehead red and dripping with sweat.
Martha runs back toward me, whipping her head one way and another, her cheeks flushed. Her pale eyes are wide with need. “Where is—where is he?”
“Martha—”
“Where is he?” cries Martha, lunging at me across the lot.
I don’t know what to say, how much of the story is worth telling. A kid was obsessed with you. He tricked your husband into leaving. Your husband went on a madman’s crusade. He was shot and he died in a field by a beach.
“Where is he?”
“Martha, get inside,” says Rocky. “It’s dangerous out here.”
“That’s right,” I say. “Time to go.”
Rocky peers at me like a stranger. Barely recognizes me. He’s focused on the next step of his life, on cashing in the promise of escape he’s been given—for himself and his daughter and for his son-in-law, too, until Brett’s mysterious disappearance. I wonder if he asked the World Beyond people for that speciaclass="underline" “Hey can this guy get in there, too? My daughter won’t come without him.” I wonder if the hucksters hemmed and hawed and finally agreed, no skin off their backs, peddling one more nonexistent spot in their nonexistent underground compound.
“Where’s Brett, Henry?” says poor Martha, and I just tell her, I say, “He’s dead,” and she collapses to the ground on her knees, buries her face in her hands and wails, one long keening senseless syllable. That’s the end of the world right there for Martha Milano.
“Sweetheart?” Rocky is all business, heaving her up by the armpits and clasping her with his big hands. “It’s okay. We’re going to mourn him, but we’re going to move on. Come on. We’re moving on.”
He’s dragging her back toward the building, which will be on fire any minute now. McConnell honks the horn. But I can’t leave. I can’t leave her here. I can’t let her die.
“Martha,” I call. “You were right. There was no other woman. He was—he was doing God’s work.”
Martha pulls away from her father. She looks at me, and then up at the sky, at the asteroid, maybe, or at God. “He was?”
“He was.” I take a step toward Martha, but Rocky grabs her again.
“Enough,” he says roughly. “We need to get inside and wait securely until they come.”
“They’re not coming,” I say, to him, to her. “No one’s coming.”
“What? What the hell do you know?” Rocky steps toward me, veins bulging on his forehead.
But he understands—he’s got to understand—some part of him must surely understand. Whatever time they told him the convoy would arrive, that time has long since passed. Even old Sergeant Thunder let himself admit it many hours ago.
I keep my voice calm and even, authoritative, as much for Martha’s benefit as for Rocky’s. “There is no such thing as the World Beyond. You’ve fallen prey to a con artist. No one is coming.”
“Bullshit,” says Rocky, pushing his hand into my chest, rolling me back on my heels. “Bull. Shit.” He turns to Martha, grinning uneasily. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I did everything these people asked. Everything.”
There’s a rolling crash behind us, and everybody turns: it’s the roof of the Steeplegate Mall, just across the parking lot, caving in with a series of splintering cracks. McConnell leans on the horn and I wheel around and shout, “I’m coming, here I come,” and then I reach for Martha again, hold open my hand to her.
“Martha.”
“No,” says Rocky. “They’re coming. They’re fucking coming. We have a contract.”
A contract. This is what he’s got and he’s going to stand on it. No shaking him loose. No making him see sense, because now, at this pass, this is sense. This is what’s left of sense. And the helicopter did come for Nico, that is true, that did happen, and maybe Jesus Man really went to Jesus, and maybe this convoy is different from the one that didn’t come for Sergeant Thunder: Maybe it’s just up the road, maybe it’s a con and maybe it’s not. Nothing—nothing—nothing can be counted on, nothing is certain.
“Stay,” I say to Rocky. “But let Martha go.”
He shakes his head, starts to speak, but Martha interrupts him, suddenly composed, calm, clear as daylight. “Go?” she says. “Go where?”
That I cannot answer. The woman is waiting in a burning parking lot for an imaginary line of cars, and I have no better option for her. McConnell’s country cop shop is not mine to offer. My own house was stripped from boards to beams. The world is running out of safe places.
“Thank you, Henry,” says Martha Milano, and leans forward and kisses me gently, leaving the barest trace of lip gloss on my cheek. I raise one hand to touch the spot with two fingers. She’s gone already, clutching her father’s solid arm as he leads her back inside to wait for doomsday.
“I’m so sorry, McConnell,” I say, as I dive back into the Impala. “Let’s go.”
EPILOGUE
We all hear it at the same time. It’s the middle of the night and the house comes to life, cops rolling out of bed or leaping off mattresses, jamming guns into the waistbands of sweatpants; cops sticking their heads into the bedrooms crowded with kids, whispering “stay where you are, guys” and “everything’s fine”; cops streaming outside to back up Officers Melwyn and Kelly, who are on porch duty tonight and are therefore the commanding officers on the scene, per our agreed-upon rules of engagement.
“Three sharp crashes,” barks Officer Melwyn, holding his Beretta up against his chest, addressing the group. “On the property or just over the line.”
“We need a team for the south lawn,” says Officer Kelly, everybody nodding, weapons drawn. I’m carrying a SIG Sauer now, the same handgun I used to carry on patrol. We’re breaking into clusters, getting ready to move, when we all hear the noise again: a loud crashing, like metal on metal, and everybody freezes.