Jacob's Odyssey (The Berne Project Book 1) (20 page)

After we were clear on what to pack, I asked them to get their things together right away. I told them we'd go over the details of the plan this evening after I'd returned.

Sarah went into Becky's playroom to tell her we would be leaving. When Becky came out, I was surprised to find her smiling happily. She snuck a glance at me and gave me a furtive wave as she followed her mother into the storage room. I'd expected her to be frightened, and I thought she'd be upset at having to leave her things behind. But she seemed perfectly fine about leaving.

I moved through the backyards on automatic pilot as if I were sleepwalking. My mind was elsewhere and I couldn't seem to focus on the task at hand. I was distracted. While I didn't believe there were any infected in the area, it was foolhardy to let my mind wander as if I were out in the wilderness on a walkabout.

Just above the hum of the air conditioners, I could hear the ubiquitous moans of the infected drifting through the air, though they didn't appear to be coming from nearby. Regardless, I needed to stay alert.

It was the plan that was distracting me. I was obsessing about it, going over it again and again in my mind making sure it all made sense. As usual, I'd come up with contingency plans in case anything went wrong. But what needled my mind the most was the one thing I couldn't account for—how Sarah and Becky and Raj would react in a difficult situation. And I'd have no way of knowing how they would react until one of those situations arose. While I knew I was being thorough, I had a vague feeling something wasn't right.

It was midafternoon and the late July sun hung regal and brilliant in a spotless azure-blue sky. The day was glaringly hot, windless and still. Nothing moved. It was the kind of day where you didn't touch the hood of your car or go barefoot on the sidewalk. Even the tops of fences were hot to the touch. Thick waves of heat penetrated everything. I seemed to be the only thing moving in the stifling heat. The sun was to my back and I could feel its dense heat stamp the nape of my neck as I clambered over the neighborhood fences. My Diamondbacks cap kept my face shaded from the sun and I'd put sun block on before I left, so I thought I'd be fine.

I spotted an apparent abandoned home on the block just north of Sarah's block. A two-story. The curtains for the picture window were drawn back and there was a light on from a standing lamp on the right side of the picture window. The garage door was open too. I took my time and checked the street in both directions using my binoculars. When I was satisfied, I sprinted across the street.

I had a fleeting thought about going into the garage and picking the lock to the house there. But I didn't like the idea of standing in an enclosed space in plain view. If there were any infected around, I could easily get trapped.

I went around to the backyard and crouched down at the back door. I slipped my backpack off and grabbed the bat. There wasn't a hint of shade by the back door and the oven-like heat baked right through the lean cotton of my t-shirt. The temperature had to be close to one-hundred degrees. This would be the third home I'd scavenged today. I'd already found a backpack for Raj but had yet to run across any clothes for him.

I began to work the rake pick in the keyhole just above the tension wrench. Picking locks was second nature to me now and I could do it blindfolded. Neighboring air conditioners hummed steadily. But my mind was elsewhere. I was thinking about the anger I felt toward Sarah. It felt like a dark cloud shrouding my mind and I couldn't recall ever being that angry at anyone. I'd been stung by her rejection of me and her judgments. And even though I realized her feelings had little to do with me but had arisen out of her past, I had difficulty letting go of the anger.

I turned the tension wrench and opened the door slowly. I put my backpack back on and grabbed the bat and moved silently into the kitchen. I stood quietly in the middle of the kitchen floor for a few moments and listened. And while I tried to remain focused on the task at hand, thoughts of Sarah bullied their way into my mind. I couldn't seem to keep her out. Sarah and I had next to nothing in common but for one clear exception. We were encumbered by our pasts. My childhood years lingered over me like a pall and there was something following Sarah around too. Our pasts hung around us like clinging shadows, following us wherever we went. They kept us from being who we could have been without them. And I couldn't help but wonder if Sarah's past haunted her the same way mine haunted me.

I heard nothing. I checked the main floor first. As long as the doors were closed, I'd keep them that way. If they were open, I'd close them. I didn't expect to find much on the main floor, and there would likely be nothing of use in the basement. The bedrooms would hold the booty. In two-story homes like this one, bedrooms were almost always located upstairs. The only door open on the main level was to the bathroom. But there was nothing there.

The stairs were near the front door in the living room. The one thing that always struck me about the homes I broke into was the way the homes looked as if they had simply been abandoned. It gave me the chills. They weren't all that way, but many were, like the Josephsons' home. It was as if everyone on the planet had suddenly disappeared, yet all their earthly belongings remained behind just as they had left them, right where they had left them, undisturbed and collecting dust. It was as if their belongings were waiting patiently for them to return. And it gave me an eerie, uncomfortable feeling to traipse around their homes. Part of me had expected their homes to be in ruin or disarray. Isn't that the way they were supposed to look during an apocalypse? As it turned out, there was some disarray here, even if it was just a whiff.

I took a moment to observe what had happened. Just above me, a three-globe ceiling fan revolved slowly. I held the bat down by my side. I was looking at the couch and coffee table in front of the picture window. The couch was a long, three-cushion leather affair, a distressed toffee brown. In front of the couch was a sleek teakwood coffee table with bowed legs. A National Geographic magazine had been laid page down on the table. The pages were scrunched up on one side as if the magazine had been laid down hurriedly. The standing lamp I had seen from across the street stood next to the couch, still offering its light. They hadn't bothered to turn the light off when they left. On the other end of the coffee table, a large bottle of water, two-thirds empty, sat on a scrolled amber coaster. Next to it an opened bottle of Advil lay on its side with several of its pills scattered across the table. An Aztec throw blanket in dark earthy colors lay in a soft heap on the far cushion, a corner of it dipping over the cushion's edge. A bedroom pillow, indented in its center from the weight of a head, leaned against the couch's armrest. Just a small hint of disorder, yet it spoke volumes. No doubt they'd left in a hurry.

I looked out the picture window and realized I was in plain sight if one of the infected stumbled by. I needed to get moving. But what I needed more than anything was to snap out of the nebulous haze I'd been in ever since I'd left the Josephsons'. I was struggling to maintain my focus and I kept taking silly chances. I hadn't been myself and I needed to get my mind clear.

I took the stairs slowly, one step at a time. I didn't worry about making the steps creak. I knew the air conditioner would mask any sounds I made. As I approached the top step, I held the bat in attack position, ready to strike if the need arose. I wouldn't take any chances. The memory of the infected woman stuck in her upstairs bedroom was fresh in my mind. At the top of the steps, I stopped and listened. I heard nothing save for the hum of the air conditioner and the soft whir of the fan downstairs. I doubted anyone was here. They were long gone. But I would do my due diligence anyway, and I'd remain alert.

There were two doors open in the hallway. One to the upstairs bathroom, the other to the master bedroom. After checking the bathroom, I headed into the bedroom. The room was quiet like the rest of the house. A king size bed with a dark hardwood headboard with large, ornate posts dominated the room. Neatly set out on the bed were a woman's light gray skirt and white silk blouse, along with a two-inch wide black belt that mushroomed wider at the buckle.

The bedroom set included two nightstands with matching lamps. A Nexus tablet was plugged in and charging on one of the tables. There were also two matching dressers. An HDTV sat atop one of the dressers. Framed pictures and small jewelry boxes sat atop the other. From the pictures, they appeared to be a childless couple in their mid-forties. He was rangy with an athletic build and had an amiable, mischievous smile. He towered over her in the photos. She was petite with dark wavy hair down to her shoulders. She looked stiff in the photos with her shoulders perfectly squared. She stood at attention as if she were in the military. She smiled bleakly at the camera with thin lips. He looked relaxed and at ease; she looked awkward and severe. No question they were opposites. And I couldn't help but wonder if they'd been happy together. They were an odd but attractive couple.

The door to the walk-in closet was open. I flipped the light on and stood in the doorway, checking the room out before I went in. The room was spacious. Her clothes were to the left and his to the right. She had a lot of dressy clothes well-suited for a professional. A wide collection of business attire: pant suits, dresses, and color coordinated blouses and skirts—stylish and pricey looking. They were uniformly spaced and scrupulously organized. I wondered what her profession had been. My guess would have been an accountant. His clothes were mostly casual. A couple of sports coats, but mostly shirts and jeans and chinos. He also had lots of t-shirts. I picked out three tees for Raj. On the far wall there was a collection of hats, about a dozen or so. I picked out a Utah Jazz cap for Raj.

They had their own shoe racks too. I checked his out and found a nice pair of hiking shoes. I couldn't see a size in them, so I measured them against mine. Raj said he wore size twelve. I wore size ten. From a cursory glance, I figured the man's shoes were about the right fit. I didn't see any shorts in the closet, so I headed back out into the bedroom.

I figured his dresser would be the one with the TV on it. And as I rummaged through the drawers looking for shorts, I realized she had been the one who had been infected. If she had been the one taking care of him, she never would have put the magazine down so casually. Just from the arrangement of her clothes, it was easy to tell she was a precise person. Orderly and precise, obsessively so. Even if she had been in a panicked state, she would have closed the magazine up and placed it neatly on the coffee table. She would have done it out of habit. And whoever had been the caretaker-nurse that day would likely have had to help their infected partner out to the car. They might even have had to carry them. She couldn't have weighed more than 115 pounds soaking wet and he must have been at least 190. There was no way she could have carried him or even helped him to the car. And then there was the garage door. Again, she would have closed the garage door regardless of the circumstance. But he wouldn't have. If she had been in a bad way, and she likely was, he wouldn't have given the garage door a second thought.

I found the shorts in the third drawer down. And I made an effort to match the shorts with the tees. While it seemed silly given we were in an apocalyptic crisis just trying to stay alive, I had the feeling Raj was a persnickety dresser. And I could understand that. I picked shorts that had both belt loops and elastic bands on the sides. Raj wasn't as thick as the man in the house and the shorts would likely be a bit roomy on him. I found a braided belt that he could use to tighten up the shorts. I also found some high quality mini-crew socks and grabbed four pairs, two for Raj and two for myself.

I folded Raj's new clothes neatly and put them in the backpack. Just as I was about to leave, I glimpsed at the Nexus on the nightstand and had an idea. I checked the Nexus to see if it was connected to the internet, and it was. I took it with me and headed back downstairs. I set it on the dining room table and headed to the kitchen.

I found a family-size bag of frozen broccoli in the freezer that would go well with the salmon. I would grab the broccoli when it was time to go. The fridge was well stocked. I grabbed some pre-sliced cheese and root beer from the fridge and found some soda crackers in the pantry and made myself a snack. I sat out at the dining room table and ate my snack slowly. The ice cold root beer tasted wonderful and I helped myself to a second can.

I opened the Nexus browser and went into Google and used the onscreen keyboard to type in search terms for Sarah Josephson and wedding announcement. I found results in the archives from both local papers. I read the Tribune's version. Sarah was marrying a man by the name of Andrew Schrader. She was nineteen at the time and the announcement was dated twelve years ago. She looked quite beautiful in the photo they had of her. But even back then her smile was quiet and guarded. Schrader had thick, reddish hair and serious eyes.

Even though the wedding announcement was public information, I felt as if I were spying on Sarah. But I pressed ahead anyway.

Now that I had his name, I googled Schrader. Most of the results had the words murder and suicide in them. Again, I read the Tribune's version of events. Schrader had a history of drug problems. On the day in question, he broke into his father-in-law's house to steal valuables, presumably to buy drugs. Afterward, they found a stolen collection of rare coins in his backpack. A neighbor had alerted Sarah's father, Tyler Josephson, that someone had broken into his house. She called the police too. Sarah's father worked nearby as a professor at the U and got there before the police. He came home and found his son-in-law going through his things. The police surmised that Schrader panicked when he was confronted and shot Sarah's father. The police arrived moments after the shooting. They tried to talk Schrader into giving himself up, but eventually he shot himself instead. At the end, the article mentioned that Tyler Josephson was survived by his wife, Lily Cheung Josephson and his daughter, Sarah Josephson Schrader. Apparently, Sarah was an only child.