‘I used to believe that this was God’s own country,’ said Ed. ‘Now I’m not so sure.’
Karen said nothing, but came across to stand beside him. She was wearing a pale blue blouse that belonged to Season, and a pair of Season’s baggy denim jeans. Her hair was drawn back, the way Season often drew hers back, and tied with a ribbon.
‘You’ll find them,’ she said, gently. ‘You know you will.’ Ed looked at her. ‘Yes,’ he said, unconvinced.
At that moment, Della came down from the bathroom, showered and smelling of Goya talcum. She had dressed herself in one of Ed’s green gingham shirts, with the sleeves rolled up, and the front unbuttoned right the way down to her navel. She had washed her hair, and it was wet and combed Sha-Na-Na style.
‘I just looked in on Shearson,’ she said. ‘He’s sleeping.’
‘Again?’ asked Karen.
‘I think he’s trying to retreat from reality,’ Della remarked. She went to the cocktail cabinet and, uninvited, poured herself a bourbon. Ed said, ‘Help yourself to a drink,’ but his sarcasm didn’t faze her in the least. She came to the window and possessively curled her arm around his waist, and kissed him on the cheek. Karen gave them both a tight lemon-at-the-party kind of a smile.
‘Shearson can’t imagine a world without food,’ said Della. ‘Therefore, he’s decided to withdraw from it completely until it all gets back to normal. If this famine goes on, he’ll probably sleep like a baby until he dies of starvation in his bed.’
‘How’s Peter?’ asked Karen.
Della swallowed bourbon. ‘Peter’s okay. I think he’s got used to the idea that he’s going to be better off if he cooperates. Peter’s enough of a political manager to know what kind of a jam he’s in. In his case, I think a little plea-bargaining is going to go a long way.’
‘You still think you’re going to be able to bring Shearson to court?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Della. ‘But until I get orders to the contrary, he’s under arrest charged with fraud and misappropriation of funds and more federal bank offences than you can mention. And that’s the way it’s going to stay.’ Peter Kaiser appeared in the doorway, dressed in an ill-fitting short-sleeved shirt in bright orange, and a pair of creased khaki slacks that were too wide around the waistband and three inches too short around his ankles. ‘Well, well,’ said Karen. ‘How’s Waikiki beach today?’ Peter didn’t even answer. He sat himself on the end of the sofa, clutching himself as if he was beginning to feel the cold, and looked steadfastly miserable.
‘You want a drink?’ asked Ed. ‘There’s some bourbon left, or a little sherry.’
‘No. No, thanks,’ Peter told him.
Della said, ‘You’re not in cell block eleven yet, Peter. Don’t look so unhappy.’
Peter looked up. ‘You think I’m unhappy because of that? You think your half-assed threats of arraignment mean anything at all? You can stick your arraignment, right where the camel stuck his dates. I’m worried about my mother, if you must know. I tried to call her this morning, but all the lines to Washington are out.’
‘I got through to LA just now,’ said Ed. ‘Maybe they’re only out for an hour or two.’
‘What do you care?’ asked Peter.
Ed stared at him. ‘I care because I have people of my own to think of, just the way you’re thinking about your mother. Now, have a drink, for Christ’s sake, and stop looking so damned depressed.’
They had been staying at South Burlington Farm since early Tuesday afternoon, and the tension between them hadn’t been improved by the rapidly-worsening famine bulletins on the television. There was sufficient canned and frozen food at the farm to keep them going for another week or two, if they were lucky, but after that they knew they were going to be out on their own. They had hoped to be able to stay for a month, but the President’s announcement on Wednesday evening had meant that over sixty per cent of their food had had to be thrown away. Ed had opened all the suspected cans and dug the food into the ground, in case they were tempted to open them later, when they were hungrier, and far less anxious about the risks of botulism.
On Tuesday morning, after capturing Shearson, they had stopped just outside of Fall River at a roadside diner, where Della had put in a call to the FBI office in Wichita. There had been no reply, she said; so she had tried calling Kansas City. The bureau chief there had told her not to risk bringing Senator Jones across country to Kansas City until the famine situation had ‘normalised itself. He had warned her not to try handing him over in Wichita, either since there had been fierce demonstrations and looting in the centre of town, and the Mayor had declared an area bounded by 13th Street to the north. Hillside Avenue to the east. Pawnee Avenue to the south, and the Highway 81 bypass to the west, totally under 24-hour curfew and a shoot-on-sight regulation for anyone found on the streets.
Ed had painstakingly bypassed Wichita by driving south on 77 to Winfield, and cutting across home to Kingman County through Wellington and Harper. Shearson had sat in the back, sweating and complaining; Karen had fallen asleep with her head against the Chevy wagon’s window. Peter Kaiser from time to time had said, ‘This is completely illegal, you know. We have the right of habeas corpus. Even derelicts have the right of habeas corpus.’
Della, still holding the pump-gun across her knees, had said, ‘I hope you’re not trying to tell me that you’re as good as derelicts. Even derelicts live their lives by some kind of a moral code.’
Shearson had grumbled, ‘Don’t women make you ill. A rotten woman is as bad for your stomach as a rotten steamer.’
Ed had been nervous, approaching the ranch again. He had wondered for one hopeless moment if Season and Sally had made it back to Kansas, but he knew damned well that there were no flights from California, or anywhere else for that matter. He had also wondered, more realistically, if the farm had been looted while he was away, or burned by vengeful neighbours who had seen his Sunday-evening broadcast and assumed that he had somehow been involved in Shearson’s Blight Crisis scam himself; or if Willard and Dyson and Jack Marowitz had decided to abandon the farm and head for the city.
He had stopped at the gates to South Burlington. A large, crudely-scrawled notice-board had been erected by the farm insignia, proclaiming: PRIVATE LAND – TRESPASSERS SHOT. He had driven the Chevy Suburban a short way along the dusty entrance-road, and then stopped, flashing his headlamps and sounding his horn.
Slowly, keeping the wagon covered with a shotgun, Dyson Kane had emerged from behind the nearby fence.
‘Dyson!’ Ed had shouted out. ‘It’s me! Ed! I brought a few friends along with me!’
‘Friends, he calls us,’ Shearson had remarked, with heavy irony. ‘They’re very droll these farmers, aren’t they, as well as mischievous.’
Dyson had taken a few suspicious steps nearer. ‘They really friends?’ he had asked. ‘None of those people are holding a gun on you, are they?’
‘It’s all okay,’ Ed had answered. ‘Look-this is Mrs Della McIntosh. She came around at the weekend.’
Dyson had walked right up to the side of the wagon and taken a look inside. ‘Well, now,’ he had said, reaching across to shake Ed’s hand. ‘And isn’t that Senator Shearson Jones you’ve got in back?’
‘That’s right,’ Ed had told him. ‘I’ll tell you all about it up at the farm. You want a ride?’
‘It’ll have to be later,’ Dyson explained. ‘I’m on guard duty right now. We had two or three pretty nasty bunches of looters around yesterday afternoon. They’re looking for anything they can lay their hands on – particularly livestock. They’re all armed, too, and if things get any worse I reckon they’re going to start killing people.’