His father-the real guy, not the uniform with the shiny badge that most of Serenity looked up to; the man Jubal remembered as sometimes cranky, sometimes drunk and always, at least until that last day, somewhat careful-once told him that the world could go tits-up at any moment and all any man could do was be prepared. Danny Slate’s glass was always half empty. He would routinely stave off his pessimism through charitable acts, while secretly suspecting that mankind’s innate badness would someday be the ruin of everything.
Forcing a smile, Jubal tried to be cheerier.
As he drove the mile to his mother’s house, he turned the cruiser’s radio to a classical station; the music always soothed Jubal. He needed a break from the news about the aggressive talk from the new China-Russia Consortium and the endless speculation about Nevada. Somehow, the knowledge that all of the classical composers and many of the musicians he was listening to were long dead calmed him, gave him hope that something good could survive what increasingly looked like bad times.
He turned into his mother’s driveway and found the house exactly as he had left it that morning. The porch light was on and the curtains were drawn.
A fresh knot of anxiety bloomed in his stomach as he rushed up the steps, but when he stepped into the living room he found his mother on the couch watching TV.
She slowly lifted her head and gave him a faint smile.
“I brought you some lunch, Ma.”
“Just put it on the table. I’ll feel like eating later.”
She looked worse than she had the night before. Her skin was pale and the circles under her eyes were the color of day-old bruises. Strands of white hair stood out in sharp relief to her original, lustrous black. Surely the white hadn’t appeared overnight; he must have missed it before. She wore a frayed housecoat and was covered to the waist by a thick comforter adorned with Navajo artwork. She’d had it since Jubal was a child.
“Ma, have you had anything to eat today?”
“I had that soup you?xed me.”
“That was last night.”
“And it was good.” She smiled to let him know she was playing with him. She sat up, sighing with the effort. “Hand it over, Tex. And get me a fork.”
Jubal hurried into the kitchen to fetch silverware and napkins.
“Want some water, Ma? Or juice?” he hollered.
“Just coffee. I made some this morning.”
He poured her a cup, added a little cream, then returned to the living room. His mother had opened the Styrofoam box and was staring warily at the contents.
“I guess it’s Wednesday, huh?”
“Eat some of it. Please.” He handed her the fork and napkins. He set the coffee on the end table.
She ate a forkful, chewing slowly. She looked ten years older than she normally did and it broke his heart. His mother was always so active, so vital, volunteering at the church’s day care, and at the Red Cross. Now he could see the deep lines etched into that kind face, and she looked as though she’d lost 20 pounds in the past week. He could not remember her having an illness more serious than a slight cold.
He sat on the couch next to her. She had been watching a disc of one of his father’s favorite shows: an old Western called Gunsmoke. Dad had loved it as a child and had tried many times to get his wife interested in it. It wasn’t until after his death that she watched it, and now hardly a day passed without a viewing.
They sat silently, his mother chewing as they both watched Miss Kitty pine for Marshall Dillon.
Finally, Jubal said, “Ma, I’m calling Doc Mitchell.”
She swallowed, then set the Styrofoam box on the coffee table. She picked up the coffee from the end table and took a drink. “No, you won’t. This is just a little bug. I’ll be?ne in a day or two.”
“Ma, it’s all over town, like some kind of epidemic. I’m calling Doc.”
She waved the suggestion away. “Just sit a bit and tell me what’s going on.”
Jubal shrugged. “Same old stuff. The diner was only half full, ’cause of the virus.”
“Is Damon still sick?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m going over there next.”
She patted his arm. “And how is Fiona? She’s not sick, too, I hope.”
“No, she’s?ne.”
“Well when you stop by that drug store, you tell my future daughter-in-law that I need something to kill this bug, okay?”
“Sure, Ma.” Speaking of his?ancee made him feel a little better. And maybe Fiona would have a suggestion that might ease his mother’s symptoms.
“And what about this thing up in the desert? Anything new?”
Jubal shrugged again, just as he had always done when talking with his mother. He was aware of it, but helpless to do anything about it. “Nothing but gossip.”
“They say it’s terrorists, though nobody’s taking any credit for it. That right there is enough to make me suspicious.”
Jubal rolled his eyes. Here we go.
“I was just a girl when they hit us the?rst time.”
“I know, Ma.”
“And I never forgot the sight of those people jumping from that burning tower, knowing they were going to die, just wanting another second or two of life. I never forgot it.”
Jubal patted her hand. “I know.”
He expected her to be at least a little teary-eyed, as she usually was when she told the story. Yet when she turned to face him, he could see anger there. “That’s why it’s sacrilege to lie about a terrorist attack. It’s bullshit, Jubal. The army or the CIA has screwed the pooch again and the bastards are covering it up.” She pointed at the remainder of her lunch. She had eaten maybe a fourth of it. “Now put that away and let me nap. Then go see about that fat old sheriff.”
Jubal put the rest of her lunch in the refrigerator before he went to his room and shut the door. He called Doc Mitchell’s of?ce and left word with Rosario, Doc’s long-time secretary, that Jubal would appreciate it if Doc could drop by the house to check on his mother.
There were advantages to living in a small town.
Jubal opened a drawer and withdrew a small notebook. He?ipped through several pages before he found the name he was looking for.
Luke Dressen had been one of Jubal’s best friends at NMSU. Luke had kidded Jubal constantly about his plan to return to Serenity to work. As far as Luke was concerned, big cities were where the excitement was, and he planned to join the FBI in one of their major?eld of?ces. Jubal would never forget Luke’s aw-shucks grin on graduation day when his friend had said he had accepted a job with the Pahrump Police Department back in his hometown.
Jubal punched in Luke Dressen’s number. They hadn’t spoken for nine months or so, but still kept in touch via email. In fact, Jubal had received a packet of Luke’s patented so-bad-they’ll-make-you-groan jokes three weeks ago.
Instead of a ring, Jubal heard a?at metallic voice informing him that all lines were unavailable until further notice. The announcement was followed by a fast busy signal.
He hung up and thought about what Pops had said at the diner. Were the roads into Nevada really blocked by military vehicles? Jubal had a suspicion that he might have to call a friend on the state cop force and ask a few questions.
But that would have to wait.
He returned to the living room and found his mother dozing, while on the screen Festus was trying to explain to Matt that he wasn’t sleeping; he was just resting his eyes. Jubal pulled the comforter up to his mother’s shoulders. He heard her murmuring, the words too faint to understand. She must have been dreaming, and for some reason he could not understand, this disturbed him.
He turned off the TV, locked the door and went to his cruiser.
Beethoven’s third symphony, the “Eroica,” played on the cruiser’s radio. As he pulled out of the driveway, Jubal began whistling along with the second movement-until he realized it was the funeral march portion of the symphony. He abruptly stopped whistling, but left the radio on anyway; you didn’t shut off Beethoven.
A sharp static burst interrupted the music for a moment, but then the signal cleared again.