“Okay. Did he say anything about any new products?”
“Just that they were about to announce something… something big.”
Cochran waited a moment, watching Bob closely. He tilted his head, and Bob could only see twin reflections of the blazing sun in the lenses. “Did he ever send you anything? Anything related to his work?”
Bob said, “No… no,” before he realized he had just lied. He didn’t know why. It just seemed important to protect his son. So he didn’t mention the seeds he had planted and the two acres of corn he had visited last night. “No. What is all this about?”
“Precautions. Nothing more.”
His time outside, in the sunlight, allowed Bob to focus. He remembered this was his farm and decided to act like it. “You said on the phone you were the Vice President of…”
“I am one of several acting Vice Presidents of Affairs, yes.”
Bob gestured at Cochran’s side, indicating the gun. “And what all does your job description entail?”
Cochran gave an easy, empty smile. “Well, my duties vary. Let’s just say I’m involved in whatever myself and my employers deem necessary.”
Bob nodded. “You’re a fixer.”
Cochran shrugged slightly. “If there is a situation that I believe can be fixed, then yes. It depends. Right now, however, my job is to guide you through a difficult period. Look at it this way, Mr. Morton. I am your new best friend.”
“You’re a lawyer?”
“I have a law degree, yes. And I will be happy to answer any other questions you and your wife may have. However, at the moment, decorum prevents me from continuing. I am afraid I have pressing business we must attend to first.” He went back to the car and withdrew a leather case from the backseat. He set it on the hood and popped the latches.
Then, with all the solemn dignity the situation required, he turned, holding up a silver urn.
The back door slammed. They both looked over to the house. Belinda stood at the top of the steps, one hand clasping her robe across her chest, the other holding a fistful of Kleenex up to her face. When she saw the urn, her eyes widened, then rolled back. She uttered a short cry, her legs gave out, and she tumbled down the back steps.
Kurt finally emerged from the bathroom, bowels empty, paper read, and hollered that he was ready for his breakfast. No one answered. He poked his head around the corner and started to get mad when he found the burner still on and Ingrid gone. The kitchen was a fucking mess. It looked and smelled like his wife had waded through pig shit and tracked it all over the tiles. He didn’t want to step in the congealed remains of raw eggs and whatever else was on the floor, so he leaned over to turn off the burner. He opened the fridge as if she were hiding inside. Almost disappointed, he shut the fridge door and stood for a while looking at all the shit smeared across the floor.
Then he grabbed the hot frying pan and went looking for his wife.
First, he went upstairs, going through each room, under the bed, in the closets. All empty. Next was the basement. He had to go outside and kick open the warped doors that sloped down at an angle from the house to the overgrown lawn. Stomped down the cement steps. He hollered her name again. Still nothing. He went through the first floor again, in case he had missed something. He ended up at the front door and threw the frying pan at the fridge.
Kurt kept his .12 gauge Remington in his truck, his last refuge. This was where he would retreat from all the women in his life. He could live out of his truck, if necessary.
He got the Remington out and pumped it. Yelled, “I know you can hear me. You got one chance, right now, to come crawling back to me. You do that, and I forgot this all happened, just this once. You go back inside, we’re okay. You don’t come out right fucking now, I will cripple you, so help me Christ. I will break your fucking hip with the stock of this shotgun. This is it.” His words faded into the silent corn. “Last chance. Okay. Okay. I find you, I am gonna fuck you up so bad.” Kurt started out the driveway toward Highway 17. He didn’t think things had gotten too far out of hand with Ingrid last night.
But then again, he hadn’t taken a very good look at her. Come to think of it, he hadn’t even seen her this morning. Most times, after he’d just fucking had it and unloaded all his anger and stress and frustration, that next day, he didn’t want to be in the same room as her. He didn’t like to be reminded of what he’d done, and it was easier to deal with everything if she kept her distance for a while. Until she healed up enough to talk without a lisp from a fat lip and swollen jaw. Eventually, things would go back to normal, but until then, he was happy for her to be in the next room.
He walked out onto the highway and paced around the hot asphalt for a while until he heard a vehicle. He faded back into the corn and watched, in case Ingrid came out of hiding and tried to flag down the driver. The pickup never even slowed down and Kurt never saw anything else move.
He started back to the house. His anger was starting to dissipate in the unflinching daylight, slowly, insidiously replaced by something else. Unease. He would never admit it. Not to anyone, not to Ingrid, especially not himself, but the fear that always lurked around the edges of his consciousness was flaring up and consuming his thoughts. The absolute one thing he could control, his wife, was gone. Not just out of the house, not just at the store, not just at her mother’s, but gone. And without that central anchor, that one element in his life that he could keep his thumb on, everything else in his life was becoming unhinged and floating away untethered.
He was lost without Ingrid.
He checked the barn. He had no idea why. Ingrid had not stepped inside the barn in years. He may have forbidden her, back when he kept his skin magazines out there, but he couldn’t remember now. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t inside. He found nothing but rotting hay, sagging timbers, and cobwebs.
He stepped back into the sunlight, clutching his Remington, holding it as tightly as a child seizing its favorite blanket in the throes of a nightmare. He screamed, “Ingrid! Ingrid!”
The cornfields were silent. Not even the insects answered.
MONDAY, JULY 2nd
CHAPTER 8
A fuzzy green patch of mold was growing on the bottom corner of the bread. Sandy eyeballed it through the plastic wrapper and swore. Why the hell was it so hard for her to manage to make Kevin’s lunch the night before? She never could get it done, and yet, every damn morning, she rushed to throw together something halfway healthy and fill in his lunch box. They were running so late she would have to put his bike in the back of the cruiser and drop him off at school. There wasn’t enough time for him to ride.
Kevin sat at the table, listlessly pushing his spoon around his cereal bowl. It didn’t look like he’d eaten anything.
“You gotta help me keep an eye on this stuff, too, okay? I can’t keep track of everything in the fridge. You’re in here more than I am.”
She found herself wondering if it would be safe to eat if she cut away the mold. Surely a little penicillin wouldn’t hurt. Then she shook her head and threw the half loaf of bread in the trash in case she changed her mind later. Back in the fridge, she dug around and found a few slices of leftover pizza. Perfect. She didn’t want to think about how long they had been in there.
Still buried in the fridge, Sandy said, “Okay, you win. No whole wheat bread today. How’s pizza sound?”
Kevin shrugged.
She drew back and looked at him. Kevin could happily live off cold pizza and nothing else. Maybe Doritos on the side. Aware she was watching, he stuck a spoonful of cereal in his mouth. She slipped the slice into a gallon Baggie, sealed it, and put it in his lunch box, mashing down the grapes and chocolate milk. “You don’t seem too thrilled.” She zipped the lunch box shut.