Men. Lily expected as much, telling Chalk, “I read a study about copulating rats. The horny male rat absolutely can’t be distracted from his goal of getting off. Not even by the sight of crumbled cheddar. But when a horny girl-rat gets a whiff of cheese, don’t you know she starts thinking fondue.”
Senator Morgan believed that for men, particularly the impoverished, poorly educated, biddable-yet-fanatical, terrorist demographic, the gold and the weapon of mass destruction were more potent than sex. She would inspire a powerful destabilizing fundamentalist yearning, even in the heart of the most clinically depressed vest bomber smack-zonked on a dirt floor in Basra dreaming of his virgins. Terrorists would turn on each other like hammerheads in a feeding frenzy.
At first it seemed that it didn’t matter to Lily which low-rent radical cell suddenly gained ruinous millions and The Bomb. After all, how many lottery winners keeled over from drug overdoses within weeks of their supposed stroke of luck? The chaos had to start somewhere.
During their last chess match in the back of her jet, Lily went a bit gonzo even for her. As a gardener, Lily saw plenty of butterflies. Along with Brownian Motion, she ate up the far-reaching concept of the Butterfly Effect.
She had waved a cookie at him, scattering crumbs across the chess board. “Think about it. The innocuous single wingbeat of a butterfly might result in something huge, like a tornado, a continent away. Swear to God, the confounding panic of a do-it-yourself weapon and a fortune will whip through Al Qaeda like a tsunami in a sea of sand. Chaos used to be the terrorist’s pal. Now it’s his enemy.”
Tonight, crossing the Chesapeake, which was turning out to be Chalk’s personal Rubicon, it torqued his nuts to realize she was secretly planning to ruin him with this business at the same time. Chalk gazed south down the bay. Somewhere out there lay Smith Island, where he hoped to find the gold, the bomb, and Dick Blackshaw. If the Senator got her way, Chalk would also dig his own grave. But not if he had something to say about it. Where it mattered, Chalk always got the last word.
He recalled the wistful look in Lily Morgan’s eye before she stepped off the plane. He thought she was lying to him yet again, so Chalk had simply pretended to be downcast when she broke the news of the terminal diagnosis her doctors had given her: Variant Creutzfeld-Jakob disease.
Soon after landing from yet another ride in the Senator’s jet, his sources confirmed she actually was dying. At least it explained the Senator’s weird behavior of late, the worsening insomnia, the slight muscle spasms, her pretentious geopolitical ideations. Once again, chaos was playing into Chalk’s hands. Yet, it was far worse, far more ridiculous than that. Based on what the doctors had told her, it might be prions, and not atoms that would exterminate human life on earth. Over the decades, when the Senator fertilized her beloved roses, she always used the best bone meal made from ground-up cattle. She had no way to know that some of the donor steers were sick with Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy. She had inhaled plenty of the bone meal dust year in and year out. After a long incubation, the BSE had horribly warped Lily’s judgment, slowly turning her frontal lobes to Swiss cheese, right where her impulse control was precariously housed. If the great Chicago fire was started by Mrs. O’Leary’s cow, it was truly ironic that the holocaust of World War Three would be ignited by a mad cow sitting in the United States Senate.
The quirk of fate made Chalk laugh out loud as the van crossed onto Kent Island, the bay bridges’ landfall on the Eastern Shore. From the driver’s seat, Slagget threw another worried glance at his boss, but understandably said nothing.
That was it! His decision was made. Chalk would take no more anti-psychotic meds. He must pit crazy against crazy to live through this fight. Since he was already capable of anything, he was moving into uncharted territory that was downright otherworldly, making a quantum leap of chaos deep inside his mind, and thence into his reality. Eat your heart out, Tim Leary!
CHAPTER 14
The sun was just coming up over Smith Island somewhere behind the storm clouds. LuAnna strode through the door of the saltbox decked in full uniform and foul weather gear. Ben’s haggard look of surprise set her back. A tired Knocker Ellis was also there, and he likewise was not killing himself to bid her welcome.
She said, “Sorry boys. Didn’t know it was Testicle Tuesday. Call me when you’re letting girls back in the treehouse.” She turned to go.
Knocker Ellis smiled wearily, stood. “Please, Officer LuAnna, I was just heading home.” He reached for his foul weather jacket.
LuAnna’s turn to be surprised. “No oystering? Good. I’m glad you’re not going out in that mess. Supposed to blow up a lot worse.”
Ben winced at her euphemism and said, “And Miss Dotsy’s gearbox is wortenoggled. Lose her engine in this kind of chop, and she might turn to and broach. Can’t afford to give Sea Tow any business.”
Ellis shot Ben a look, and left.
LuAnna kissed Ben on the mouth. He tried to turn away before she leaned closer still and flicked his neck with her tongue. He knew she was not feeling frisky. It was her informal forensic analysis of his scents and flavors, like a wife sniffing for a mistress’s perfume, or scanning for stripper-glitter on her man’s clothing, but more intimate. Without looking at him, she busied herself at the kitchen counter pulling a pot of coffee together.
Ben already knew what she tasted on him. Sweat and dirt, but with a soft middle note of sex, and an unassuming yet perky tidewater finish. She probably had enough confidence to figure he’d frothed up the shag-whiff with her. At the very least, she would know he had not showered this morning. By this time, he was usually off-gassing the manly, but okay-for-women-too, scent of Irish Spring soap.
She handed Ben a cup of coffee. Before he could take the mug, LuAnna absently pulled it back just out of his reach. Ben reflexively opened his hand to grasp. Got him. She saw his red, raw blisters. Very hard manual labor. Not the usual state of a man diving the bay in gloves. Not the hands he’d clutched and caressed her with just last night. She gave him the cup.
Ben watched LuAnna make a conscious decision not to cross-examine him. He was relieved, but realized this was a stay of execution, not a pardon.
She said, “I’ve been thinking.”
“I thought I smelled smoke. What about?”
“What are you always asking?”
“To leave me some hot water after your shower.”
“Funny man. Seriously.”
Ben caught her tone, and quit busting her chops. He eased ahead slowly, not sure of his depth. “Okay. Every time I see you, I ask you, ‘LuAnna Bonnie Bryce, would you please let me be your husband?’”
“And daddy to my babies?”
“Yes. Every last one of them.” The soul-annihilating cold in Ben’s bones began to thaw. “Are you thinking—”
LuAnna gave Ben a hard smearing kiss. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking. Yes, Benjamin Blackshaw. I’m telling you, yes.”
Ben rose, hugged her tightly. All thoughts of bombs and gold and his dead father vanished from his mind. This was the only wealth he had ever truly sought, and now he had it. “I love you, LuAnna.”