For a full five minutes, Ingrid did not move.
Her right hand fluttered and curled into a soft fist. Her head twitched. Her eyes, which had never closed, gazed dully at the ceiling. She managed to roll over to her stomach and draw her knees under her. She rocked back and forth for a while, as if getting used to how gravity worked. Moving like a toddler, she crawled toward the back door.
Kurt’s voice boomed through the thin slats of the bathroom door, echoing throughout the empty farmhouse, “Better not be burnin’ the fuckin’ bacon again.”
CHAPTER 7
Bob hadn’t moved in hours. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been in the bathroom. The news was still maddeningly vague. Nobody knew anything, only that the island had suffered a massive, severe fire, and it was feared that there were no survivors. But that didn’t stop all the speculating.
Bob couldn’t even muster the indignation that the White House had not even held a press conference yet to express their sorrow and condemn those responsible. He couldn’t understand why it was so difficult to simply provide a list of the known fatalities. A brief phone call from his son’s employer was not enough. He needed the power of television to make the death of his son final. Then he could move on. Until then, he was stuck in a sort of formless limbo, caught between knowing deep in his guts that Bob Jr. was dead, and the irrational hope that refused to let him sleep, to rest, to even blink.
Around nine in the morning, a white van turned off the highway and cautiously trundled down the long driveway slowly, as if it wasn’t sure it was in the right place. From his chair, Bob watched through the front windows as it approached the house. It got close enough for Bob to see the logo, WGON in bright blue letters, tilted slightly to suggest movement and urgency, and the words ACTION NEWS underneath. This was a TV station out of Springfield.
For the first time since the phone call, Bob worried he might throw up.
He didn’t want to face reporters. Especially TV reporters. With cameras. He’d chew his own testicles off before he sent his wife outside, so he focused, planted his feet on the wool rug, and stood. The room wobbled a bit but straightened out, and for the first time in twelve hours, he felt almost strong. He suffered a moment of intense dizziness when he bent over to grab the remote, but it passed and he turned off the TV. Belinda had been quiet for a while now, and he closed the bedroom door, then went outside, hammered down the wide concrete back steps, trying to contain the rage and sorrow as he went to greet the unwelcome visitors.
He wished he had more bourbon.
The white van circled around the great oak in the center of the farm, taking its time, tires rolling over the smooth gravel. Bob got the feeling they were already filming and wondered how they would portray his life in the shape of the long equipment sheds full of irrigation and harvesting machines. It stopped and the young, hot reporter got out of the passenger seat while another person got out of the side.
Bob had been to enough political and business public displays of friendliness in the form of godawful free hot dogs, bags and bags of potato chips, and endless carbonated soft drinks. All as if the public was nothing but voracious cattle, lining up to feed at the trough when dinner is called. All free. Free. That magic word. Even if only half of the people that flocked to these garish campaign events voted, and even then, even if only half of those votes went to Bob’s guy, it was all worth it.
During these grand openings and political rallies the media had not only been invited, but required. Bob had dealt with enough PR people to know that the girl reporter was a puppet, controlled by the guy next to her. He was the producer. He had on a Chicago Cubs hat. Bob hated him immediately. This was Cardinals country, and everybody else could get the hell out.
Bob had been used to being on their side. Today was different. He knew that the third guy to get out always had the camera. He didn’t want to be onscreen and held up his hand.
This camera guy already had the soft light mounted on the camera lit when he climbed out behind the producer. The producer started talking fast. “Mr. Morton, Mr. Morton. I’m Allen Wilson, and WGON needs to know, sir, what have you heard about your son?”
“No. No. This is not the time for you to be here.” He shook his head. “Stop filming. Now.”
Allen was a go-getter. “Mr. Morton, please.” He knew when he was closest to big news and got to be first on the scene. “The American people deserve to know!”
Bob knew they’d edit out anything they said to make it look like he was shouting nonsense. He’d seen it happen dozens of times to political rivals, and now that it was happening to him, it made him tongue-tied and he couldn’t even manage a simple “No comment.”
“Please leave,” was the best he could get out.
The WGON crew got closer. The producer gestured at the reporter and let her take over. She spoke in deep, sympathetic tones. “You have no doubt heard, Mr. Morton, that your son has been reported lost in what some are calling the West Island Massacre. What do you say to this news, tonight?”
“I… I… do… not wish to speak at this time…” Bob saw, out of the corner of his eye, another vehicle coming up the driveway. This one was a rental car, small, sleek, and gray, like a seal splitting through a green sea of corn.
The car didn’t take the scenic route like the van. It aimed for the news crew and slid to a stop uncomfortably close, leaving a few feet of skid marks in the gravel. The man who jumped out wore a deep black suit and no tie. Sunglasses. Mid-thirties maybe, but there was some bad, bad years in there. Thinning hair swept back in perpetual irritation.
The man ignored Bob and targeted the news crew. “I’ll ask you once. Leave. Now. I’ll even be polite and say please. Just this once. Mr. Morton has just lost a son. When he is good and ready he will invite you to a press conference. Until then, understand that you are trespassing on private property and Mr. Morton has every legal right to defend his property. You have three seconds to get back in that van and leave immediately. One.”
“I’m sorry, who are you?” Allen asked as the cameraman swiveled to take in the newcomer.
“Two,” the man said, pulling out a thin, short-barreled 1911 handgun from a shoulder holster inside the suit. He racked the slide back and faced them.
Allen stood his ground. “If you think you’re gonna stick a gun in our face and chase us off, you got another—”
The man put a bullet into the oak tree in the center of the driveway. The gunshot hit the quiet farm like a nuclear bomb. Even Bob jumped. The cameraman jumped as if he’d been pinched by a pair of pliers and dumped his camera into the backseat. The reporter didn’t waste any time hopping into the passenger seat and locking the door. Allen wouldn’t meet anybody’s eye as he mumbled something about the First Amendment, but he scrambled into the van with the other two. The van pulled around, accelerating back down the driveway.
The man put the pistol back in its holster and turned to Bob. He extended his hand. “Mr. Morton. Paul Cochran. First of all, let me extend my deepest condolences on the loss of your son.”
“Thank you,” Bob said and shook Cochran’s hand. His head felt numb.
“Forgive me, but I have to ask. Did you say anything about your son, anything at all?”
“No… no. I don’t think I said… they just showed up.”
“Good. If am going to be able to help you, I need total and complete honesty. When was the last time you spoke with your son?”
“I…” Bob fought off a wave of grief so strong he thought he might start crying in front of Cochran. He bit it back and swallowed. “Last week. Maybe. I don’t know. He was excited about his trip.”