Bob Jr. brought his hand closer to his face, willing his fingers to straighten, and watched in horror as they curled inward in an awkward fist instead, like some sick parody of a dead insect. They twitched and fluttered.
He struggled to breath and slumped even lower. He wanted to cry. The feeling of not being able to control his own hand filled him with a shaking terror that even eclipsed his growing unease over the stupid head cold. Deep down, he suspected it had something to do with breathing the same air as Dr. Deemer, but he refused to even entertain that possibility.
No. As soon as he could sit up, he was going to grab that throttle and get to dry land. He dimly realized his chin was wet; he’d been drooling. His ears felt like they had been stuffed with cotton. Everything was muffled, as if bass had been turned all the way up while everything else had been lowered on his headphones, the water lapping the rubber side of the boat, the distant droning of a helicopter, all sounding like he was inside an empty oil drum. He went to wipe the drool away and his hand came away coated in black, slimy spit.
The faint buzzing of a helicopter grew louder until he could hear the distinct thumping of the spinning blades. He tried to sit up and look back to the island, but could only manage to twist his head and look up at the engine. That’s how he spotted a small black brick about the size of a satellite phone attached to the underside of the engine with a magnet.
He found that his thoughts were swimming away from him like skittish minnows, but he managed to grab hold of one and dimly realized that the Zodiac had a GPS tracker, an unwelcome stowaway. Then it was gone, slipping through his grasp.
He had forgotten all about the helicopter until its shadow covered the boat. Even then, he wasn’t sure if it was really there or not. Very little oxygen was reaching his lungs. He was more concerned with the uncomfortable feeling that something was growing from the back of his throat, stretching up along his back teeth and climbing up into his nasal passages.
His thoughts grew slower and slower, drifting apart and settling like dead leaves sinking to the bottom of a pond. His last coherent image was a memory, of running across the vast lawn of home with his dog, while his mom hung laundry on the line over by the giant propane tank and his dad worked on one of the harvesters down in front of the largest barn and the sun burned over all the miles and miles of corn.
Then the missiles struck and Bob Jr., along with his thoughts, and the boat, vaporized into nothing but heat and ash.
CHAPTER 3
When the dispatcher called with a simple 10-21, Chief Sandy Chisel was standing on the front porch of the Einhorn farmhouse, arms crossed to keep her hand away from her pistol, listening to a load of bullshit.
Sandy clicked her radio and simply said, “Copy,” then looked back down at Kurt Einhorn as he leaned back in the rocking chair.
“Don’t know how many times I hafta explain things to you people,” he said. “My wife, she’s clumsy. Happens all the time. Don’t see why you gotta come out here, wastin’ taxpayer money just cause the stupid bitch fell down the basement stairs.”
Kurt was known in the law enforcement business as a frequent flyer. Every few months, the neighbors across the highway called 911 when Kurt beat his wife so bad they could hear her screaming. Sandy’s predecessor had warned her that arresting him and taking him to jail for the night wouldn’t do any good. Just made things worse for Ingrid, the wife. The old chief had tried it a few times, hauling Kurt down to the police station in town, but inevitably, Ingrid would show up the next day, bruised and moving slowly and stiffly. She’d explain it was all a mistake, that she’d hit her face on the fridge door or dropped a hot pan on her foot. Calls and visits from spousal abuse counselors were ignored. Eventually, most people just figured if she didn’t want out, then it was none of their business.
Nearly seven months into the job, this was Sandy’s second visit as chief. She knew damn well the wife wouldn’t say anything. Still, she went through the motions, taking her time as she walked Ingrid down the porch steps to the cruiser where they stood for a while under the summer night sky, listening to the occasional lonesome cricket. She explained in a low voice that Ingrid would never have to see him again, all she had to do was say the word. Ingrid, a thin wisp of a woman with short, frazzled hair, hugged herself and shrugged, looking everywhere but at Sandy.
After a while, Sandy gave up. It made her feel tense and irritable, like she’d been chewing on a ball of aluminum foil all day, but she knew damn well her words—her promises, attempts at shame, appeals for Ingrid’s health—none of it made a bit of difference. Ingrid would suffer in silence until some night he’d hurt her bad enough to put her in the ground, or something would snap and she would up and leave. Then again, there was always that distant third possibility, and Sandy didn’t think she’d be the only one not shedding any tears if Ingrid up and killed the son of a bitch.
Sandy led Ingrid back up to the porch. Kurt still sat in the rickety rocking chair and watched them with the sluggish, lidless eyes of a lizard. “Still waitin’ for that beer,” he told his wife. Ingrid didn’t say a word, but she moved fast. The screen door slapped its frame behind her.
Kurt and Sandy regarded each other silently for a few long seconds. Moths beat against the bare bulb above. He reminded Sandy of a fat Gila monster, perched on a rock under the noon sun.
“Go ahead.” When he smiled, his lips thinned and almost disappeared, revealing teeth the color of old tobacco. “Say something threatening. Tell me if she hurts herself again you’ll make me sorry. Come on. Get me all nervous.”
Sandy managed a tight grin right back. She kept her tone flat. “Not much point, I suppose. Looks like you got it all worked out.”
“Do you well to remember that. Day I let some nigger-loving cooze tell me my business is the day I take a dirt nap.”
This time, a wild mirth lit up her eyes and Sandy gave Kurt a chilling, genuine smile. “That dirt nap can be arranged. Easier than you think. Do you well to remember that.” She headed back to the cruiser, hating the feeling that his eyes were following her ass and forced herself to walk slow, easy, unconcerned. Domestic disturbances were a cop’s bread and butter, but she hadn’t been on the job long enough to find that balance of shutting down her emotions but still caring enough to be an effective law enforcement officer.
She started the cruiser and pinned Kurt to the front of his farmhouse with the high beams. He stared back and didn’t move. Sandy could see Ingrid watching from the kitchen window. The woman turned away from the window and left a blank rectangle of light.
Sandy followed the horseshoe driveway around past the dark barn and back up to the highway. The Einhorn farm was set back off the road, but sound carried in the corn. The closest neighbors, the Johnsons, had called 911. Meredith Johnson, mother of twelve or thirteen children, Sandy never could quite remember, was standing on her front porch, watching and waiting.
Sandy sighed. She didn’t doubt the Johnsons could hear the yelling from their front lawn. Their house was right across the highway from the Einhorns. The Johnsons were fundamentalist Christians and homeschooled all of their children, avoiding the pressures and temptations of public school and making sure their family knew the facts regarding topics such as evolution and global warming.
Meredith wore long dresses, a permanent frown, and kept her long brown hair pinned up in a severe bun that probably wouldn’t come loose in a hurricane. She knew damn well Kurt wasn’t in the backseat, and no doubt tomorrow she would be telling the rest of the sewing circle in the basement of their church all about how Sandy was such a disappointment as the town’s police chief. Why, she couldn’t even lock up an obvious sinner like Kurt Einhorn. Liz, the dispatcher, always referred to Meredith as “Sister Better-Than-You.”